


on the banks of the sansretour

by kathikon



Category: Generation Kill, Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Alternate Universe - The Witcher Fusion, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Brad Has a Sword Though, Bruxae (The Witcher), But his Name is Never Actually Said, Canon-Typical Violence, Dress Blues and a Sword, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Mild Horror, Pre-Canon, Prophecy, Riddles and Prophecies, Toussaint (The Witcher), Trombley is here if you Squint, Vampires, Which he Deserves Frankly, Witcher!Brad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:20:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26588032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathikon/pseuds/kathikon
Summary: To whom shall I give this baby?If I give you to the old hag, she’ll keep you for a week.If I give you to the werewolf, he’ll keep you for an entire year.And if I give you to the Witcher, he’ll keep you forevermore.Oh, sweet child, I'll keep you for myself, and give you to nobody at all!—An Old Kaedweni Lullaby
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	on the banks of the sansretour

**Author's Note:**

> Set over 200 years before the events of The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt.
> 
> Title from the song "The Banks of the Sansretour" from The Witcher 3: Blood and Wine DLC soundtrack, composed by Piotr Musiał.

**19th of Feainn, 1073. Sancerre Vineyards, Touissant, Nilfgaard.**

There was blood in the air, and he could smell it.

It mingled with the rich scent of ripe grapes and wet earth, and as he inhaled, the overwhelming stench was _death_.

His medallion thrummed at his hip, and he drew his blade from its sheath, stalking forwards amongst the rows of grapevines trailing up their trellises. The reek only increased as he grew closer to the winery amongst the vines, and now, he could see puddles of blood in the dirt, soaking into the roots of the grapevines.

A slight breeze stirred the grape leaves, and in the distance, a flock of birds rose into the dusky sky, shrieking loudly.

From his belt, he pulled a phail, uncorking it with his teeth and spitting the cork into the dirt before downing the potion. It felt like embers burning in his throat, an ache in his bones as the poison pulsed through his body with each rhythmic thud of his heart.

His nose started bleeding slowly, and when it dripped into the damp earth, it sizzled like acid, searing the dirt there.

The home's door had been torn off the hinges halfway, dangling ajar from the desperately protesting top hinge when Brad took a step into the darkness of the home, the floorboards creaking weakly beneath his weight. The farmhouse had been upended, the table overturned on its side, shattered chairs and dishes strewn across the floor.

On the ground near the smouldering hearth, still clutching the poker as if it was a club, lay the farmer. He was more intact than not, Brad found. There was no blood, just a corpse white and stiff as a candle. The only thing was his eyes— burst open, hanging from their sockets and running down his face, pouring out like red egg yolks.

The Witcher turned away. The coals were still warm, and the body not yet stiff.

His quarry was still here.

Leaving the body, he crossed the room towards the narrow staircase, starting up it with soft, careful steps. Halfway up, he found a hand, a clump of hair, smears of still-wet blood.

What he found at the top landing was a woman, or had once been. There was an eye staring blankly up at the ceiling and the white ladder of a spine, vertebrae stripped of muscle, a few unrecognisable fragments of bones and meat wrapped in the blood-soaked fabric of a ragged dress. That was all that remained.

The floor was a sea of blood, slick and metallic, and Brad could only hope the woman had died quickly.

He doubted it.

Her face had been rendered nearly unrecognisable, flesh torn away to reveal teeth bared in a grimace, one mangled arm still reaching towards an open doorway.

Something moved beyond the open door, and he could hear the soft sound of a woman’s voice, rising and falling as though she was singing.

“To whom shall I give this baby?” The voice coming from the bedroom was soft and sweet, and Brad’s heart froze as he heard it. Memories flashed behind his eyes, a ship with a snarling dragon’s head on its prow, a field in the summer, the feeling of wet stones under bare feet as he ran along the shoreline. “If I give you to the old hag, she’ll keep you for a week.”

As he stepped in through the door it creaked on its hinges as he pushed it open. Brad could see the singer now, a young woman standing over a child’s cradle, her long, dark hair falling over her shoulders. When he breathed in he could smell the reek of blood on her skin, the lingering scent of mother’s milk still in the room, and he could hear the child’s heartbeat.

“If I give you to the werewolf, he’ll keep you for an entire year.” He stood in the doorway, hesitating, hand on his sword, even as the Bruxa turned, the babe cradled in her arms and wrapped in a soft blanket. 

“And if I give you to the Witcher, he’ll keep you forevermore.” The child didn’t stir as she smiled at Brad, soft lips drawn over even teeth, liquid brown eyes meeting his cat-like ones.

“That’s a nice song you were singing,” Brad murmured, keeping his eyes on hers as he took a step forward. The medallion at his hip hummed as she rocked the child back and forth. “Never heard it before.”

“Not many people remember it.” She twisted to set the baby back down in the cradle, though she never stopped watching him. 

Brad adjusted the grip he had on his sword. “Doesn’t seem like you’re leaving many of them to remember.”

“As if you left many alive in Skellige. I hear you slaughtered the pups in their dens, same as the others.” The Bruxa reached down into the cradle to caress the child’s cheek. “They call you the Beast of Hindarsfjall, Witcher.” She pulled away, levelling him with a heavy-lidded gaze, fingers working at the clasp of her cloak. “You’re a bold one, but you’re still young.”

“I’m not letting you kill more innocent people— sounded like they’re sick of you here anyways, from how much gold they were offering for your head.”

“Once there was a time where no amount of gold would convince a Witcher to take this contract.” She paced around the crib, footsteps whisper-soft on the wooden floor as she stepped out of her dress, letting the fabric pool around her ankles.

“Times have changed.”

“Then you’re a fool,” she breathed, voice twisting into a snarl as she spoke. “And you will die braver than most.”

Brad just adjusted his weight, raising one hand just as she darted forward, slamming into the barrier of Heliotrop. Still reeling from the impact, the Bruxa staggered back a few paces before she blinked out of his sight, just a breeze and the reek of gore as she tried to squeeze between the narrow space between him and the doorframe.

Brad hissed in response, jerking one hand up to grab a handful of the vampire’s hair and twisting, half throwing her into the darkness of the hallway as she howled in fury.

He hardly had time to react when she threw herself at him, his sword sparking brilliantly against her arm when she blocked his blow.

 _Sloppy. You’re getting slow, Brad,_ he thought as he danced backwards, nearly tripping over the corpse of the woman that laid in the hallway. Her blood was wet against the Witcher’s boots, the metallic stench so rich it made his head spin.

As if she knew his distraction, the Bruxa shot forward as if an arrow from a bow, her form nearly invisible if it hadn’t been for the slight distortion of the air around her as she slammed into him. Brad staggered, slipping in the blood across the floor before he tumbled backwards down the stairs.

Head spinning, he laid at the bottom, sprawled across the floor as his chest heaved, trying to recover before she could reach him.

Brad could hear the Bruxa laughing, vision blurry as he watched her stalk down the steps towards him, her pale flesh almost glowing in the moonlight that streamed in through the door.

His sword was lying a few feet away and as he reached for it, she kicked it away, sending the blade skittering across the ground.

She pounced again, faster than he could respond with Aard and one of her clawed hands grabbed at his chin, jerking his head up violently.

Her teeth burned when she sunk them into the junction of his shoulder and neck, cutting through skin and into the muscle. Brad didn’t make a sound, just struggled weakly, shoving at her with heavy hands. He could feel her claws digging into his face, before she let go, tossing him aside like a ragdoll.

Upstairs, the child was crying.

With a growing horror, Brad watched as the Bruxa turned towards the stairs, a too-wide grin spreading across her face.

“Oh look, Witcher. You woke him up.” Brad laid there, trying to catch his breath as he tried to staunch the blood pouring from his neck. It felt thick as tar, burning at his fingers as it ate through his gloves.

The Bruxa took a step towards the stairs before she convulsed sharply, stumbling to the side. The table broke as she staggered into it and she lay there on the floor, twitching.

Their eyes met and she tried to pull herself closer, scrabbling at the floor with her claws.

“What did you do to me?!” she wailed as he heaved himself off the ground, bracing his weight against the wall. Black blood, _his_ _blood_ , ran down her chin as she spasmed again.

Brad knelt down to pick up his silver sword, one hand still holding the oozing wound on his neck. The weapon felt so heavy in his hands, but it didn't matter now. The Bruxa hissed at him she cringed away, crawling towards the stairs as if either of them had the strength to continue their battle.

Brad brought the sword down, pinning the Bruxa to the floor— trapped between the point of the blade digging into her ribs and the cold floor. Her flesh sizzled where the silver touched it, and she shrieked in response, voice rising in agony.

“Witcher! You are a shattered ship with no rudder, a pillar with no foundation— do you not want to know your fate?!” She slid into her human form easily, staring up at him with wide, teary eyes. “Spare me and I’ll give you a prophecy.”

“That’s not how this works.”

As if she still had a chance, the Bruxa began to speak in an odd, lilting tone, and despite his judgement, he let her.

“A man who sows must also reap, the first shall be his last, and his last the first. For meddled minds, and a father’s pride, the star-child’s sword will fall on bone. A shadow on the wall, a cat and a hound, all will fade away when the Mirror’s Master walks. On empty skies, and empty seas, the dreamer shall never find for what he sleeps. A price to be paid, a debt unknown, the gift of the son of the crossroads will leave you cold in your grave.”

Brad drew the sword away and the Bruxa seemed to sigh in relief. “It doesn’t rhyme,” he murmured, as the Bruxa dragged herself into a sitting position, the shallow wound on her chest oozing pitch-like blood. 

“What—“ he didn’t give her a chance to speak again. His sword flashed in the moonlight, the runes on it glowing slightly in the darkness, and in the glow, he could see the terror on the Bruxa’s face, the dawning realisation and the pleading.

“All good predictions should rhyme.”

The stroke was far from his best work, far from clean, but despite that, the silvered steel bit into her flesh like it was made to do, sinking into the meat of her neck— a mirror to the bite on his own. Her spine caught the blade, but already the damage had been done, blood steaming in the air. The Bruxa gurgled as she raised one hand, pointing at him.

“He will one day come to collect what you owe, Witcher,” she wheezed, the air escaping her lungs with an airy rattle before she went limp, her dark eyes still fixed on him.

He let the body topple to the side, blade till lodged in the bones of her neck. Brad grunted with the mild effort to pull it out, bracing his foot on the Bruxa’s chest to withdraw the sword, a slick sound following the silver.

His limbs felt heavy, as though they’d been cast in lead and he stumbled to the side, past the corpse towards the staircase.

The baby had stopped crying and the house was deathly silent.

Brad let the sword slip from his grasp as he half staggered, half dragged himself up the stairs, vision blurring as he entered the bedroom again.

A lamp burned on the table where it hadn’t before, and the air smelled vaguely of soot and sulphur— an odd scent, and yet in the cradle, the boy slept peacefully, rosy cheeks and a head of soft curls. Above him dangled a mobile of small mirrors made into the shape of animals, reflecting the lamplight across the room in golden arcs.

Brad stared at the child a moment longer before he turned to the bed, all but collapsing with a strung-out groan. He could feel the wound closing itself up, the Black Blood wearing off as he laid there. After days of sleeping along the side of the road, it felt like he was laying amongst clouds.

He would deal with things in the morning; the price of the contract, the child, the long journey back to Kaer Morhen for the winter, the Bruxa’s ‘prophecy’.

Yet he couldn’t shake it from his mind— something about those words had seemed like more than just the desperate last words of a Bruxa pleading for her life. But the thought was gone quickly as it came and Brad let himself slip away into the warm embrace of sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> The lullaby the Bruxa is singing to James (as well as in the summary) is based heavily on a translation of "Ninna Nanna", an Italian lullaby.
> 
> If you're wondering why Brad uses Heliotrop instead of Quen during his fight against the Bruxa, Heliotrop was used consistently in Sapkowski's works to defend from against a single physical attack/impact, as well as combat magic Quen appeared once in order to defend from a Sonic attack, but was later adopted as the general 'protection' sign due to a mistake. I prefer Heliotrop for most physical impacts and Quen for magic and arrows.


End file.
